The Mentor
by midnightbokeh
Summary: As one life ends at the point of an enchanted blade, another is stolen in chains of iron. Two sides of the same coin meet in a place between lands. A Sleeping Beauty/Maleficent crossover.
1. Chapter 1

"_Thou Sword of Truth, fly swift and sure,  
that evil die and good endure!"_

Her world plunges to an end at the point of an enchanted blade.

It pierces her chest, cleaves her heart, and she shrieks with rage and agony, convulses, _incinerates_ from the inside out, feels every vein erupt, every nerve shatter until there is nothing left of her, and yet this searing pain, the most excruciating she has ever felt, does not subside.

She falls.

She falls, and burns, and falls, and burns.

She screams, though she has no lungs.

She writhes, though she has no body.

She sees, though she has no eyes.

A vision swims before her: oceans rise, mountains fall, rivers coalesce into a vast swampland surrounded by jagged cliffs. At its edge, her castle, a familiar black blight on the countryside, growing closer, closer, closer, beneath a swirling, flashing vortex she vaguely remembers is of her own making.

She plummets through it and, as the stones rush up, somehow retains the presence of mind to brace for impact. Parapets crumble, towers become ruins, wooden gates succumb to rot, and still she falls.

There is an unpleasant lurching sensation, a feeling of being stretched beyond all possibility, of turning inside out, before finally, blessedly, the Mistress of All Evil knows no more.

An eternity passes, or perhaps no time at all.

When she awakens, it is to incoherent screams of untold loss rending the mists of dawn.

It takes her a moment to realize the screams she hears are no longer her own.

* * *

"_Maleficent, I've come to warn you. They mean to kill you!"_

Her world is wrenched away from her in chains of iron.

It is without a doubt the worst pain she has ever felt in her life, a horrid, throbbing thing that pulsates with every heartbeat from the burnt stumps on her back, seeps into her joints, pounds mercilessly in her head. She cannot even bring herself to move from the forest floor at first, and why should she? No one hears her cries, or perhaps they have all been frightened away. Maleficent is truly alone in this ordeal.

The hours pass, and she drifts in and out of fevered delirium.

_Please, you have to trust me._

_I like your wings._

_Trust me._

_Your wings._

Morning bleeds into late afternoon before she can gather the strength to rise, limbs shaking, body racked with a deep, dull ache that has nowhere to go. She stumbles, weak and unbalanced as a newborn fawn, and so she fashions a staff out of a broken twig to help her walk. Slowly, slowly, she makes her way out from beneath the cover of trees, away from the Moors, a place far too stifling now for her to bear.

As the sun sets and the temperature drops, she crosses arid grasslands studded with rock outcroppings and hardy shrubs. Ancient ruins loom on the horizon.

Night has long fallen when she takes her first steps on the worn staircase winding upward, cobblestones loose and precarious underfoot. It drains the last of her remaining effort to shuffle to a corner of the highest platform, shielded on two sides by eroded walls, where she sinks to the floor amidst dust and weeds. Numb from her journey, she lowers her head and rests a cheek atop bent knees.

A loud flutter disturbs Maleficent from her repose. "Awk!" cries the raven. It leans forward from the parapet, beady eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Awk!"

_Begone,_ Maleficent thinks, and breathes her will to the wind. So knocked from its perch, the raven squawks in indignant surprise and flaps away to wherever it is their kind go.

Alone once more with only her thoughts, Maleficent closes her eyes. Yet try as she might, sleep does not come, those same thoughts a jangling cacophony in her head. Past and future battle for attention: she attempts to recall the sensation of flying high above the clouds and has to suppress a swell of panic when the memory comes back faded; she tries to imagine a lifetime trapped on the ground and cannot fathom it at all.

So distressed is she by these incessant turnings of her mind, many minutes go by before she notices the presence of another. She slides her eyes open with a quick intake of breath. The platform is empty.

"_Get up."_ A voice whispers from everywhere and nowhere, whirling about like eddying winds, increasing in force with each pass. "_Get up."_

It does not take kindly to being ignored, and snarls, "_Get up, I say!" _The stones beneath her rumble at their very foundation.

Maleficent lifts her head high, expression set in a glower, but makes no further move.

"_Cease your pathetic snivelling."_ No longer a whisper, the voice sounds like it once belonged to a most powerful woman: full, dark, regal. _"Who are you?" _Accusatory.

She stiffens, the hunch of her shoulders erased in an instant, and though it sends jolts of fresh pain down her spine, draws herself up to stand at full height. "I am Maleficent, Protector of the Moors."

_"__**YOU**_ _are-?"_ the voice starts with a boom, then falls abruptly into disbelieving silence.

Maleficent waits. Formless magic pools at her fingertips, preparing for... what? She doesn't know. Fight or flight are the two most natural responses in a situation such as this, but she has done neither before without the aid of her wings. So she waits, even as an unseen presence circles her, not touching, but close enough that she can feel the pinpricks upon her skin as of one who is being observed in minute detail.

The voice tsks. _"So young," _it drawls. _"You think this is the greatest injury you can suffer? How wrong you are."_

"And how would you know?" Maleficent snaps.

_"Silence, you upstart!" _A harsh gust of wind knocks her back a step. _"It is I who shall ask the questions."_

Thunder rumbles low in gathering storm clouds.

_"What are the Moors?"_

"The realm of the fair folk, bordering the Kingdom of the East and the Land of the Singing Vale."

_"Who rules the Kingdom of the East?"_

"A foolish and greedy king, Henry." Maleficent does not bother to hide the bitterness in her tone.

_"Has he an heir?"_

"It is said he has a daughter, but named no successor."

_"I see."_ A pause, and then, curtly, _"You had wings? What happened to them?"_

"A coward who thinks himself a man stole them from me," is all she can bring herself to say. Fury and shame roil deep within her. How could she have been so blind? So _stupid?_

The air fills with derisive laughter. _"Protector of the Moors? Look at you. You cannot even protect yourself!"_

Maleficent crosses her arms in front of her chest. "What would you have me say?"

_"Oh, say nothing at all. Remember well this feeling, that you may never make the same mistake again."_ The voice grows fainter, as if moving away. Maleficent's wooden staff levitates off the pile of rubble it had been leant against, turning this way and that. _"Crude,"_ the voice remarks, closer again. _"But I suppose it will do for now."_

"Do for what?"

The staff flies at Maleficent's head and she catches it reflexively.

_"Why, for your training, of course, to strike back a hundredfold at those who did this to you! I did not take you for one to simply lie down and die of self-pity. Or am I mistaken?"_

"You are not." Maleficent feels a new sort of burning throughout her being, the fires of vengeance roaring to life. She holds her staff upright, rooted to the stone floor as magic flows through her, twisting, changing. Atop the staff, the inset crystal flares gold, then bright green for the first time. "Show me."

The laughter, when it comes this time, has taken on a harder edge. _"Oh, we will have fun, you and I. Now tell me, young Maleficent, what do you know of shapeshifting?"_


	2. Chapter 2

The Mistress of All Evil, formerly Maleficent of the Forbidden Mountain, now evidently Maleficent of a Pile of Rubble, was appalled.

Not by her unusual set of circumstances, which, all things considered, she had adjusted to fairly well after a brief period of existential consternation — was she dead? Alive? Trapped in some kind of purgatorial in-between? With no way of determining a satisfactory answer, she accepted that her situation was not about to change any time soon and diverted her focus to testing the limits of this new state of not-quite-being.

Maleficent was pleased to discover that although incorporeal and bound to the castle ruins, she still possessed all of her mental faculties and extensive knowledge of magic, the two parts of herself she valued above all else and had spent the most time cultivating in her former life. So what if she no longer had a body? It meant she was invulnerable to heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and especially ever being stabbed again by Swords of Pompous Righteousness.

(Some things she did miss. Her books. The ability to pace and walk about the countryside, for Maleficent was never one to remain sedentary for long. And of course Diablo, clever, loyal Diablo, undeservedly transformed into stone by those hypocritical Good Fairies, for whom she seethed with a desire to hex into the next century.)

No, what appalled her was the utter lack of education her young namesake had received thus far in her life.

This was, she supposed, the unfortunate result of being orphaned at birth and raised in a… a _commune_ of magical creatures living in an enchanted forest. No wonder she was so naive and gullible; the more Maleficent thought about it, the more she felt quite frankly amazed the younger fairy hadn't gotten herself killed by now.

But perhaps that was too harsh of an assessment. Despite not having the least bit of formal training in battle magic, she did manage to physically overpower a human king and his army in combat, albeit with help. And that was another thing — the concept of working together with others toward a common cause was a foreign one to Maleficent, who had always created minions to do her bidding.

Strong allies and wings of her own, two things Maleficent never had, and therefore never depended on.

Maleficent did not think it a coincidence that she had been drawn _here_, of all places, to be stumbled upon by one who shared her name — the magic surrounding True Names was as ancient as time itself, and just as ineffable. While she found distasteful the notion of her actions being guided by anything as capricious as fate or destiny, it was nonetheless an easy decision to take on her new protégé. For one thing, she had nothing better to do. For another, she could not pass up the opportunity to create trouble in the realm of humans, even vicariously.

The only problem _now_ was how underdeveloped said protégé's magical skills were; so much squandered potential for one gifted with a considerable amount of raw power, but had only ever been taught to use it on healing spells and trivial charms.

Well, no matter. They would start from the basics if they must. It was not as though either of them lacked the time.

It would be a nice change of pace, to do something new, after sixteen years of obsessing over something as stupid as a missing princess and not even a day to revel in the fruition of the curse for all her troubles. Her plan for revenge had been cut short in her own world, so why not vent her frustrations in this one? The thought of it cheered her up immensely.

* * *

Maleficent, errant Protector of the Moors, formerly most powerful of all the fairies, now simply trying to survive, was irritated.

She stalked through tall grasses, staff in hand, the bright sun high in the sky giving her a headache. Everything hurt, and felt off-kilter, and _wrong_.

Growing up, there was very little she did not excel at: she flew the fastest and farthest, restored wounded trees back to health with ease, and in later years, led legions of forest guardians to victory against would-be intruders again and again. She prided herself in being able to accomplish absolutely anything she bent her will towards.

Which was why her inability to shapeshift was so perturbing.

It was true she hadn't ever tried it before these past several days. The need for such an ability had never arisen; why skulk around under an assumed form when she'd liked her own — and the way it struck fear into the hearts of men — just fine?

But that was then, and everything was different now.

The magic seemed straightforward enough from how the voice in the ruins explained it to her. She _knew_ she was capable of it. Yet a part of her also knew, as loathe as she was to admit it, why every attempt to transform herself thus far had ended in failure. It was the same reason she could only stand upright through sheer determination to not show weakness, though her nerves screamed and muscles cramped each day and night, and phantom pains shot through her with any sudden movement.

Shapeshifting had two requisites: a concentrated and sustained burst of magic for the length of the transformation, and utmost clarity of mind where the beginning and end results were concerned. The theft of her wings had stolen not just the option of flight, but an integral part of her identity, her sense of self. The incantation was doomed to fail before it ever started.

A loud commotion up ahead attracted Maleficent's attention. Head tilted, she followed the mingled sounds of shouting, barking and cawing to the edge of a clearing. Her eyes narrowed at the scene in front of her: it was the raven from her first night at the ruins, struggling beneath a net, trapped between a gloating farmer and his dog.

"I've got ya!" spat the farmer, voice laced with malice. He turned, ran to his cart, and came back armed with a cudgel.

Maleficent's fingers twitched; she could rip that human from limb to limb and feed him to the dog. He deserved it. Let him serve as an example to the others…

But advice remembered from a few nights prior gave her pause. _"The living and frightened spread panic far better than the dead."_

After another moment's consideration, Maleficent lifted a hand, made the practiced gesture, and concentrated on the raven instead. She wondered if this would work.

"Into a man."


End file.
